... and happy for it!

 I was fifteen minutes into my 3-hour drive when PJ called and informed me that I’d forgotten all my food in the refrigerator.  I’d loaded my cooler with a few beers and water bottles, along with ice, but I’d spaced out on my lunch and supper fixings. Maybe old age was setting in. Or perhaps it was the usual restless night’s sleep I usually have when anticipating a long drive followed by a longer day of fishing. There are worse things than forgetting the vittles and I knew of a big grocery store in the town close to the river so rather than turning back for home I decided to go on and grab a couple of sandwiches on the way.

For a Friday morning the roads were peacefully vacant of traffic, which I appreciated as I wound my way southwest. My route twists and turns through a network of two-lane county roads that seem to lead to nowhere. Little towns passed quickly, the gas stations still closed in the early hour. Even passing through the Cuyuna Range -- a retired iron mining community now a mountain-biking mecca of northern Minnesota-- was void of the usual rack-mounted bikes and kayaks.

It wasn’t yet eight in the morning when I pulled into the market in a town that seems like a too big of a city in a place it shouldn’t be. But after the quick supply stop and a drive through town among lanes of vehicles in a hurry to be somewhere else, I finally escaped the busy-ness and was on the final leg to the river.

Tony had already launched his boat and arrived minutes behind me at the downstream take-out. Looking at the river easing its way downstream from the grassy parking lot felt otherworldly from the pavement left behind. It was a good place to be. After welcome greetings and an uncommon efficiency, we were soon back to our starting point and on the water.

The river was low, slow, and dirty -- the color of my maple dining room chairs. We couldn’t see bottom in water much over a foot deep. I’d fished this stretch before, and in an effort to prepare Tony I mentioned the first part of the float can be kind of slow fishing. With Tony on the oars, I started casting my deer-hair Dahlberg and hooked and landed the first smallmouth of the day barely a hundred feet from the boat launch! Tony dropped oars to stand and cast and we boated two nice bass in sight of the dock. Tony’s dog, Chester the pointer was along and appeared impressed. The largest bass of the day attacked my fly just past the first bend and Tony mentioned this could make someone’s day, that we could row back to the truck and be satisfied. Of course, we didn’t do that. But I had to eat my words about a slow start.

Despite low water the color of light chocolate, the fishing was fine. So was the catching, with good-sized smallmouth bass hitting with regularity. And the takes came in a variety of ways. Everyone loves the explosive, splashing topwater strikes bass are known for, and we enjoyed plenty of those. I had one hit at the end of my best cast that I first thought was a pike, as the bass porpoised out of the water next to my fly and came down on it from above. And there were the subtle, less aggressive takes from below, sort of like a trout sipping a dry fly off the surface but more workmanlike -- not so much a sip as a slurp, the way a man might slurp at a newly opened can of beer that’s foaming out the pop-top.

The low flowage exposed before hidden sandbars and rocks, offering a different view of the river, and different targets to cast to. I was taken by the sight of groups of large snapping turtles sunning at the edge of the sand, only to run as only turtles can, into the river at our approach. It would remind you of crocodiles entering a water hole in Africa. Much of the river feels that wild.

We were close to two miles from the take-out when Tony lowered his new electric trolling motor into the water for a pleasant ride out.  On the river for ten hours, we were both tired, hungry, and satisfied. The final sight of a momma bear with three cubs was icing on the cake. 

The bar/grill filled us with supper, then back to camp. I don’t think we could have stayed awake for a second beer, so I crawled into my tent and tony climbed into his trucktop penthouse.

In the morning we filled up with coffee and more stories before packing up and heading home. Livin’ large and happy for it!

Chores

As it turns out, rain isn't the worst that can happen on some days. It's Autumn now, and knowing what is coming next, we all want to enjoy as many of these colorful, pleasing days outdoors as possible. But today, there's a definite chill in the air, and the precipitation is trading back and forth between mist, drizzle, and light rain. My morning walk in rubber boots and rain parka was nice enough -- reminded me of those past days in a duck blind with raindrops dripping off my hood -- but I'll admit, it felt pretty good back inside.

There were some loose plans with Scott for some hunting behind his setters, but hunting in the rain has lost much of its appeal. There was a day when it wouldn't have mattered, while now the realization of getting older and releasing some of that "extreme desire" (as She calls it) is kinda' bothersome. Yesterday's effort in the rain was mostly exercise, resulting in disassembling a gun to clean and hanging my orange-shouldered hunting coat to dry. The grouse, apparently, were hiding in places I didn't go. 

There are things to do outside. Never-ending Autumn chores around home. Lawn mowers to rotate places with the snowblower (the weatherman said we might get a smattering of snow today. Not enough for the blower, but, well... you get the idea), and a couple of outboard boat motors to service if I've decided they won't be used anymore. Ok, to be honest, those motorized implements and boats are all under roofs, so I could stay dry and relatively comfortable working on them, but not as comfortable as my easy chair gazing out the front window watching the rain. Tasks for the chainsaw and brush-cutter are waiting, and the yearly messing around with various garden fencing that goes up or down depending on the mood-- hers, that is. Of course there's more. Not today, though. It's cold and rainy.

There are things to do indoors, jobs big and little. I've noticed a loose bit of baseboard in the hallway; been looking at replacing the ceiling in the bedroom; and all manner of other things and projects that could be replaced or updated in a long-time DIYer's homeowning lifetime. And I need to re-load some shotgun shells, which may not fall into everybody's category as "necessary", but I used my last box of 20-gauge reloads at the gun club last Sunday, and next Sunday is coming around. 

One of my favorite outdoor writers was Gene Hill. I enjoy everything he wrote, and I'm glad to have a collection of his books. When he passed, a talented author was lost. Today I think I'll re-read his thoughts on chores. Then I'll get to loading those shells. It's a good day for it.  

Hunting without

 After something like fifty years of grouse hunting, this season I'm without a dog. I've often said that I'd likely quit hunting birds if I didn't have a dog, and at the time, I believed it. But the autumn colors are too much to resist, and while there are ways to enjoy October without a gun in hand, I have the guns and enjoy every second of handling them far too much to keep them locked up.

Gabbi went down a little over a week ago. Kidney failure, a result of the Lymes she contracted last fall. She'd been going downhill for a couple of months -- Vet said this happens to a small percentage of animals that get the disease. When the time came, a compassionate veterinarian and assistant came to our house to finish the task. Gabbi is buried near three other setters on the property, all marked with a planted white pine as a remembrance.

Without a dog, hunting is not the same. It's not bad -- just different.  Yesterday I found a pretty piece of cover I'd never seen before, an easy-looking trail that just might hold birds. I slipped out of my vehicle, grabbed my shotgun, and started walking. I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss watching my dog break away into the cover ahead, or hear the cheery bell ringing from her collar as she explored the thickets, balsam runs, and alder edges in her quest for grouse. There was, however, a peacefulness to it. I moved slowly and stopped often, just to look around. A short examination of acorn-filled bear droppings was called for. A piliated woodpecker knocked chunks from a dead aspen while I watched. And there's the quietness to enjoy with only the slight breeze to rustle the leaves.

I was a half-hour into it, maybe a bit more, when a grouse flushed to the right. It didn't seem like it flew far, and a stand of taller balsams fifty yards out appeared a likely place the bird would land. Getting a shot in that kind of cover is tough but worth a try, so in I went.  I pushed around the entire stand but couldn't raise the bird, again. I moved farther east in the cover before turning back toward the trail. I guess I was more intent on gaining the easy trail and let my guard down. Two grouse flushed behind me, and I swung around just in time to see two beautiful birds flash through a tiny opening to disappear before the gun barrel could catch up. Akin to missing the strike of a big fish, I could swear, or grin and accept it. Even better, be thankful for the sight. That's hunting. And it's better than not hunting. By a long shot.  

A new shotgun?

Today I'm thinking about guns. Sitting here this morning watching through the window a hundred, (maybe more?) little birds flip from the front-yard birch to the bird feeder and seeing the thermometer reading a downright cold 40 below zero, I'm happily reclined in my chair with Gabbi curled between my legs, a steaming cup of coffee and a sporting magazine to page through seems right. The birds are mostly redpolls, with a few chickadees, nut hatches, and a couple of purple finches to add more color. 

It was a quick trip outside this morning to fill that feeder and give Gabbi a short walk, and I observed once again that the air is clearer and purer and the sky bluer when the winter temperature is frigid cold. The night-time moon nearly glows while bright stars never seem closer. Too bad it's so hard to stay out long to experience it. 

But back to my chair. I opened the magazine and saw a photo of a gun. A beautiful side-by-side shotgun. Now, what kind of shotgun would I look for if I were in the market. So I started daydreaming about ordering a gun.

The magazine photo showed a sleek Italian-made box lock bird gun. Then I did a little research to decide how I would have my gun built. The first thought would have to be the gauge. For me, it'd be between the 20 and the 12. I know some other gauges are popular, but my choice would be as stated, for reasons I won't go into here.

 I'm a tall fellow and like long barrels so I'm thinking 30 inches -- maybe 29 in a 20 gauge. The gun comes with fixed chokes, but some extra cost will add screw-in choke tubes. I'll spring for the tubes to make it versatile for all upland game birds. Flush mount tubes, of course. It's taken me a while to get used to extended choke tubes protruding out the end of muzzles on single barrel guns and over/unders, but when I've accidentally seen a couple of side-by-sides with them I could only turn away and hope to keep my mouth shut.

My new gun will have a splinter forestock with two triggers before an English-style straight buttstock. A coin finish and standard wood and dimensions (15-inch length of pull. Nice.) will suit me fine. A concave rib at another extra cost, OK. I'll skip a few of the other options as this gun is already priced way more than I've ever thought of spending on a gun.

Yes, that graceful double gun is the one for me. Then I turned the page and, oh!... two eye-catching over/unders!

The truth is: I'm not in the market for another gun. I don't even want another. I like what I have and sometimes I just have to admire the fine workmanship and details that made a good shotgun something special. No, for the shooting days I have, I'm well off.

Those canoes

  It’s hunting season now and I’m glad I was out yesterday, because the steady, cold rain falling today makes it a fine day to stay warm and dry indoors. A couple of degrees colder and we’d be in the midst of a snowstorm, but so far November has been, like last year, unseasonable warm.  

Looking out at my canoe shed, I can’t help but think how little I’ve gotten out paddling this past year. Sitting here with coffee, I'm feeling a little nostalgic, recalling all the experiences and places a canoe has taken me. 

 I grew up around various small watercraft; light fishing boats and flat-bottomed duck boats, but my canoe knowledge was limited. I was in high school when I’d saved enough money to buy a brand new 17-foot Grumman aluminum canoe. For not much more than two hundred bucks it came with two cheap paddles and two orange ox-collar PFDs. That was the start. 

I kept that Grumman for years, hauling it atop my vehicle to the various places I lived and exploring the rivers and lakes around the state.  It was my access to fishing, trapping, and recreation. Of course, the wilderness area became a favorite locale and after I settled down I couldn’t shake the lure of canoe country, and even though partners were easy to find, I was taken with the thought of solo paddling – going it alone. The Grumman was sold, and I went through several canoes of different materials before I was satisfied with one royalex for the rough stuff that would also serve as a tandem when needed and a light-weight kevlar solo canoe that has taken me hundreds of miles to wilderness waters and camps. The fishing was great, the sights wonderful, and the life outdoors incredible.  

I hope those days aren’t over. 

 

No Days Better

 Floating down a river in a drift boat is one of the most pleasing ways to spend time on the water. When you’re fly fishing from that boat it’s even better. 

For the fifth year in a row, I’ve joined friends to camp and float some northern rivers and cast to the smallmouth bass we believe are waiting. On these waters there’s also always the chance for a pike or muskie, which can come as a surprise, and flies are lost to those sharp-toothed predators. 

Whenever you’ve caught so many hard fighting fish that your well-tied deer hair popper is finally destroyed, that’s a good day. But the day wasn’t over, so I tied on a new one and caught still more beautiful smallmouth bass. 

This year we were on a different stretch of a different river than the last four years. We reserved sites in a state campground close to the river and planned for the easy shuttle some eleven miles downstream. A better group has never been assembled. 

Easing along with the current, we cast to the likely targets: rocks, downed trees, backwater eddy seams. And we hooked them and fought them. Sometimes the fish were right where you’d believe them to be, and sometimes they’d hit close to the boat just as you were about to lift and cast again. Theories were offered as to explain where the bass would be, but little proof was provided. Of course, if we knew it all, the sport would disappear. 

Each member of the group is an experienced fly fisher with many fish under their belts. But at the end of the day all were in agreement that these were the toughest, strongest bass we’d ever had the pleasure of landing. While they weren’t the longest bass ever caught, they were broad and stout, and seemed angry at being hooked and showed it. Two or three shaking jumps at first, then the pulling dive for the deep. 8-weight rods double over, I wasn’t the only one worried about a broken rod. I can’t say how many fish were landed, no one kept count. Deer hair and Boogle Bugs ruled the day. All fish were released. A couple of pike were caught, and a muskie or two were spotted without being hooked. 

Breakfast burritos, camp coffee, and hearty boat sandwiches started things out before a big, delicious meal cooked outdoors and a fine evening around the fire sharing whiskey-enhanced stories, then crawling into our tents to recover before doing it all again the next day.  

 It’s a good life. 

9.9 Johnson

 
Hot and humid. Doesn’t happen all that often here up north, but when it does... well, the air is heavy and sticky, mosquitoes love it, and the bandana around my head keeps the sweat from dripping onto my eyeglasses whenever I do something other than sitting around.  

Sitting around. I’ve always been pretty good at it and even better now that the decades have settled onto my body. A comfortable chair in the shade of the front yard birch, listening to the birds with my dog laying alongside and enjoying the wisp of breeze.  Tempted to turn on some tunes in the house, some blues could pair nicely with the temperature, and let the music reach out through the window screens. No... love the blues but nothing tops Mother Nature. 

Hmmm... a forearm specked with bits of yellow deer hair. Trapped on sticky skin and arm hairs not easily brushed off in this humidity. Trimming small bluegill poppers outdoors to keep from cleaning the fly-tying desk, let the trimming fall and lose itself in the gravel driveway.  

The old Johnson outboard motor has been hanging on Dad’s homemade motor rack for years. He was smart to have wheels on it and I can roll it around in the garage. An ‘81 model, time to mount on the Jon boat (I named her "Sweetwater") to see how she runs. Started right up and pushed me around the lake just fine. Good times. 

Another day, the temperature is better. Pleasant. Sitting on the deck with a fruity cocktail poured in my Ned Smith Ruffed Grouse lowball glass. Ruffed grouse, King of Gamebirds – the heavy June rains have us wondering how the hatch came off. Gabbi the setter lies next to me, not wondering about anything, just content. And the bourbon is top-shelf, at least where I go.

 
“Expectation is the thief of Joy”. Casting those little poppers to bluegills hiding under lily pads is almost a sure thing. The bigger, popular, more glamorous fish can be unpredictable, but if it doesn’t work out there’s still reason to be there. Because it’s beautiful. That’s reason enough.  

Bass Buggin'

 I didn’t get to the lake until three o’clock that afternoon. It’s a lake that sort of fell off my radar, though I don’t know why. I ‘ve enjoyed good fishing in the past but I guess when there’s plenty of water to fish some of the places get lost or forgotten in the shuffle. It’s one of a group of four lakes, all with the same name followed by the unimaginative designation of a number. I pushed my boat into Number Three to cast a half-mile of the rocky south shoreline.   

No need to go far from the dock to start fishing. I took my position up front and dropped the trolling motor in place.  I started with a yellow/red deer hair diver-type fly that looked good to me. A halfhearted hit from a small fish on the third cast seemed like a good sign, and fifteen minutes later I was fighting a good smallmouth that didn’t want to give up. I like fish photos as well as anyone and it was the kind of fish you’d like to have a photo of, but I didn’t have the camera set up like I do for those pics when I’m fishing solo.

Despite the early action, things came to a standstill after that. Moving slowly out from the shore I couldn’t raise another fish. Time to try something else, I lowered the anchor to change flies. You can sit and gaze into a fly box at rows of deer hair, foam, and rubber legs for quite a while, trying to decide what the bass may hunger for. I picked a Dahlberg Diver and was just lifting the anchor when I heard the sound of an approaching outboard motor. 

  

This is a good-sized lake, over a thousand acres and the west and northern shorelines are heavily developed. I fish the shallow bays and islands around the south end, in the unpopulated boundary of the state park – around Big Toe Island, Ruthies Island, and through the shallow narrows towards Bear Bay. Most anglers head out into the main lake for walleyes and I had to wonder what the heck a boat was doing coming right at me. As the distance closed I recognized the boat and uniform of the conservation officer. He pulled up next to me and introduced himself before asking for my license. Then I showed the PFD I wasn't wearing before he asked about a throwable floatation device. I remembered the boat cushion that's been resting for years at the bottom of the compartment under the rear seat. I opened the lid and pulled out another life jacket and my rainsuit, all the time hoping that cushion was still there. It was and the C.O. informed me that it needed to be out and easily accessible.  

The lawman was friendly and I’m sure he’s heard it all, but I couldn’t resist pointing out that I was alone and if I fell out of the boat, I’d have to climb back in to toss the cushion and then jump back into the lake to use it. He politely chuckled but like I said, he’s heard it before. Then he was interested in my fly-fishing gear and we enjoyed a nice visit before he was off to patrol the rest of the lake.  

It was nearing suppertime, and I was working my way back when the bass exploded on a green foam sort of diver I started tying last year. The fly has no official name – I just call it my guide fly because it’s easy to tie with minimal material. “Bearded Bass Bug” has been suggested. We’ll see.   

Suddenly, I was into them. Smallmouth fight like the dickens, and when they’re enough to fill the net you know you have something. I don’t know how many were landed, but I lost a couple I wish I hadn’t. 

The weather has been stormy and fishing in wind, rain, and lightning is not for me, but the fishing was too good to ignore so I was back a few days later. It started slow with a couple of half-hearted hits from small fish, before a slashing strike from a small pike had me glad for wire bite guards. Most of the hits came when I let the fly land and sit for agonizingly long minutes. An hour or so later I stopped for a coffee break and to change flies. After casting the area, I left the fly on the water while pulling the anchor. I kind of chuckled to myself at the thought of a strike when gripping a handful of anchor rope. Sure enough, a bass hit the fly and spit it out before I could grab my rod. Glad no one saw that!